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by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters: Gold Rush!AU [87]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Gen, Mairon is Deranged but We Knew, POV Second Person, Post-Chapter 4, Spoils of War, Torture, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 04:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19077745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: There is still blood, not the wanted kind--





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"There now." Bauglir's hand is outstretched, the one the wretch tore with his filthy mouth, and there is still blood, not the wanted kind--  
  
(You)  
  
(Maybe the most wanted kind)  
  
"I'll take that, my lad," Bauglir says, as he has said everything for all the years, and this is... _you_ , releasing the tooth, roots and all, into his palm.  
  
He doesn't seem to care about the nail, so you slip that into the purse at your belt.  
  
That hand from which you took it dangles, still unshackled. The index finger was the one stripped, but that raw spot of flesh is nothing, a mere formality for Bauglir's sake. When the light and heat and the tang of it becomes too bright  
  
mouth-skin-hand-no skin  
  
You do it for Bauglir's sake.

  
  
Throat red and not enough. Years and days and not enough. She--

(You.)

  
  
You are only...disappointed, that the sound in him was over so quickly. He opened his mouth, keeping it so even when you whispered _whore_ through the smile you put on your lips, and with one hand to his sweating forehead you forced him back, back, before you pushed pliers past tongue and (oh, you want to take his tongue) and--  
  
There was a good sound _then_ , from deep in that unmarked chest, and afterwards his head pitched forward and he _sobbed_ as the blood ran down his chin. Bauglir said, _Poor child_ , soft as an otter pelt, and now the sound was in you, wanting to spring up and kill,  
  
_Not a child, not a child, a wretch, a whore--_

 

Death is not supposed to look like her, unless it is yours. Unless she is yours.

 

And then even the sobs are gone, for when you take down his icy, shaking hand to pluck the claw, he...

 _Faints._  
  
"Oh, leave him," Bauglir says, dismissive, just as you are about to knock the wind from him with your fists. "Let him rest."  
  
The blood is still draining from that open mouth, gobs of it, too much like _her_. Bauglir staunches it with a snow-white handkerchief.  
  
If he was someone else, you would kill them both.

 

Black spots humming, blurring, cut it open, cut him open--

 

Bauglir's hand, open.  
  
You drop the tooth.  
  
"Now," he says. "I have something for you."

 

Paper? You have no use for  
  
_\--open it, my dear-_ -  
  
Red, touched with gold. You pour it over your hands, grasping it. There is so much, so much that you shaved from his scalp, much as you would from the hide of an animal. No sound, then, but you felt the pain through your knife and your fingertips, the tension in that stiff proud neck, brought low and humble as you bared it.

 

"A comfort," Bauglir mouths, choosing the word because he enjoys how little you know its meaning.

 

Death. (Breathe it in.)

 

"You did not finish him." A growl, but Bauglir is looking at that crimson-basted tooth as if it is more than--  
  
"No, no." He is listening. "I left him soft as a lamb." He is not looking, but he reaches up to stroke the forward-fallen head, the tufted hair, and you--  
  
(You are going to burn like this.)

 

"He's not his father."  
  
Does Bauglir expect understanding?

 

 _Of course I shall go alone, you fool,_ and she would not give you her mouth. She never--  
  
(Him.)  
  
(Wretch.)

  
  
The room is shaking, as it sometimes does. It is shaking and corners are going black, bubbling.  
  
"He's not his father, and yet I find him--possibly--to be something else of use." Bauglir does not touch the red on his own cheek, but you want to. You want to know if the scratched paths are what he chose. And you want--  
  
Your knife.

  
  
"Is he mine?"  
  
(Your knife.)  
  
"For a little while." His eyes are blacker than the corners of the room. "Annatar. Are you angry?"

  
  
She. You. Hands. Mouth. There is never enough flesh until it rots.  
  
(Swallow, lest the blood run down your chin.)  
  
(Spit, so that it does.)  
  
(Want.)

  
  
"I am not."  
  
All the black recedes (see everything).  
  
All the light recedes (see everything).

  
  
The room stops shaking, and you--  
  
(You.)


End file.
